If one
is to walk away with any kind of understanding from attending acclaimed choreographer Morgan Thorson's Heaven, it's that Thorson does not have a strong or clear point of view about it. There are scattered bits and pieces of the show that suggest both reverence and disdain for religion,
but none of them can be stitched together to create a cohesive presentation. And at a tedious
75 minutes, this experimental ensemble work could use some linear structure even if its genre defies it.

Not
that Heaven is a one-trick pony. Going from frantic choreography to rock song to
lovely choral arrangement, the performance is certainly multi-dimensional. Yet, you wouldn't
know that from the opening sequences. Before the audience is seated, the cast, outfitted in
Emmett Ramstad's textured beige and white costumes that defy gender constraints, treads the boundaries of the stage in small, calculated
steps with their heads slightly lowered in unison. The spectacle is attractive until
the show begins and this format doesn't relent for another fifteen minutes, and only marginally. It's a slow, uncomfortable start that throughout the course of the dance you may interpret as a comment
on the penitent, but that's only if you recover from the labored pacing and your boredom.

Boredom
intermingles with confusion when the walkers start to break off one by one in tentative movements. Some break off in twos, functioning as mirror images as they perform Morson's often crude choreography.
It is here that the stark white coloring of the set becomes even more conspicuous against the sparkly strands of glass suspended from the
ceiling. The strands, reminiscent of beaded curtains from the 70s, almost have a hypnotic
effect, and are perhaps a remark about the trance-like state of the religious. The dueling
dancers appear to be as one religious person mimics another, unable to think for themselves but falling into a robot-like
pattern.

If
Heaven were wholly anti-religious, many of the elements would make sense. There are
monotonous and violent repetitions in the choreography that suggest oppression. But the music
of Low, the band that composed the soundtrack (and, strangely, also participate as dancers), morph from peaceful melodies that would do a
relaxation tape justice to lyrics like “ I don't want to be there when you find out.” As quickly as you take note of a segment that
aspires to perfection, another follows to imply that there is no such thing as perfection.
And the soothing, calmer parts of the music, usually the forte of this band, are agonizing in prolonged doses.

Also
hard to swallow is the performance of the troupe. As the dancing becomes more animated, it
appears that they believe less in what they're doing. The protagonist changes when the
soloist does, but investment in their mission, which remains indeterminable, never transfers over. One minute, a voice reads from the Book of Life and the performers answer to their names. In another instance where Thorson's choreography is at its best, a searchlight from above looks for the
bodies that it means to claim, but try as she may, the dancer that throws her body into its path can't seem to stay in it. But the dancers only deserve part of the blame. It's hard
to be committed when they are given conflicting material to work with.

If, as
Thorson says, religion creates “barriers and lies,” Heaven is not a successfully thorough representation of that. There are hints of this, but because the opposite view is also presented, her show is as hazy as the
hazer used to demonstrate the confusion that she thinks religion promotes. Tack on
anatmosphere that feeds more into ennui than excitement, and the audience is left with an impersonation of hell
instead.